


Destiel/Supernatural Drabbles

by Trenchcoat_Impala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, Drunkenness, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:13:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 9,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28485912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trenchcoat_Impala/pseuds/Trenchcoat_Impala
Summary: A collection of random Destiel and SPN drabbles that my brain comes up with at ungodly hours of the night and day.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Destiel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Loss burns like whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> These ficlets are all from my Tumblr account and I'll keep adding to it until I die probably, so there's no end in sight for this. 
> 
> Also, please proceed with caution, there are triggering things in here.

Cold. 

That’s all Dean could feel. 

He was numb all over, fingers seemingly frozen in their white-knuckled grip around the whiskey bottle in his hand. 

His breath billowed around him in wisps of gray before dispersing in front of his eyes and disappearing into nothing.

Disappearing just like Cas.

All he could see was black. The Empty wrapping around Cas, dragging him into nothingness. 

Dean squeezed his eyes shut as he fought back tears, afraid that if he let them fall they’d freeze on his cheeks. It took him a moment to force them away, wiping at his eyes with the back of his shaking hand. 

He sniffed and took a swig of whiskey, sighing against the burn in his throat that tried to warm his body.

Dean tilted his head to look at the sky, dark and ominous above him. Clouds drifted over the moon, it wasn’t anything more than a claw in the sky, but the longer he looked at it, the more he felt that claw had reached down and buried itself in his heart.

He took a trembling breath, trying to will away the pain, but his heart continued to beat, and soon he couldn’t take it anymore, he collapsed. The whiskey bottle tumbled from his hand, breaking against the pavement and spilling the last of its contents. 

Dean stared at the broken glass and reached a numb hand to pick up a large piece. 

It would be that easy.

One quick draw across his throat, or two slashes into his wrists. 

He could free himself from all this pain, this torment, the guilt of not saying it back. 

It was be  _ so easy _ .

Dean stared at the shard in his hand while the icy wind buffeted his jacket, crawling up his skin, whispering against his neck with the breath of death.

_ Do it _ . His mind coaxed.  _ Just do it. _

He turned the glass over, letting it rest along his palm. The point of it glinted against the dull moonlight and he dipped his thumb forward, letting it prick his skin, drawing blood into the air. 

Dean swallowed thickly, still tasting the alcohol on his lips, the burn of it only just fading in the back of his throat. He was far from sober and maybe that was why he was so tempted. 

Thoughts of everyone and everything else had faded away, there was only one thing on his mind right now: Cas. 

He didn’t want to live without him. He  _ couldn’t  _ live without him. 

But Dean still made no move to shift the glass towards any of his arteries or veins. 

He could feel his jeans slowly sticking to the ice-slick pavement, could feel the incandescent pounding of his heartbeat in his ears as it diligently did its work to keep him alive. 

His eyes began to cross the longer he stared at the shining shard in his hand, blurring at the edges. 

Dean’s mind was almost made up, when he heard his name break through the fog that had been slowly crowding his mind. 

He blinked and looked up. The slanted figure of his brother was running towards him, brow furrowed in worry. 

Sam’s hands tugged at his shoulders, pulling him upright.  _ When did he fall down?  _

_ “Dean?”  _

Sam’s voice was a distant echo. 

_ “Dean!”  _

Sam shook him, hard, and Dean suddenly snapped back into focus, the glass falling from his hand as Sam’s face swam into view. 

“Oh thank God,” Sam breathed as he clapped Dean on the shoulder. 

“Heya Sammy,” Dean slurred, trying for a smile but failing.

“Come on,” Sam said as he stood up. “Let’s get you back to the motel.” 

Dean let Sam pull him to his feet, it took him two tries to get his balance on the ice, and then he let Sam lead him away from the broken bottle.

But Dean looked over his shoulder at the shattered remains, it seemed like it was a mirror image of his heart, broken and empty. 

When Sam opened the motel door and helped Dean onto one of the lumpy beds, Dean decided that next time... next time he wouldn’t hesitate. 

There was no choice to make. 

Life without Cas wasn’t an option.


	2. Let go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean dies in Castiel's arms.

Blood was no stranger to Dean’s fingers. He was so used to the texture by now, so used to the feeling of it drying under his fingernails, slowly caking to his hands. So it was nothing new to him when he felt the warm liquid pooling over his fingers, leaking past his layers of clothing, pulsing from the deep wound in his abdomen. 

He stumbled backwards, tripping onto the ground as he drew in a shaky breath. The quest for air backfired on him when all he breathed in was blood. He choked and coughed, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth, painting his teeth in red.

Sam and Cas hadn’t noticed yet. 

They were still too busy dealing with the werewolves, fighting for their own lives. 

Dean had dropped his already, but the wolf had managed to get his own shot in before he went down. He could feel the bullet inside him, wedged into some vital organ, it shifted with each labored breath he took.

Three gunshots spiked the air, and then Sam’s voice reached Dean’s foggy hearing. “Dean!”

He could feel hands on him, Sam begging Dean to stay with him, pressure being applied to the wound that had punched its way through his abdomen. But it wasn’t just Sam’s hands; he could see Cas out of blurry eyes. 

Cas’s blue eyes were fixed on his, something so sad and peaceful was settled in their depths. Dean blinked at him, all the words he wanted to say were lodged in his throat, stopped by a barrier of blood. 

One of Cas’s hands had slipped into Dean’s and the other was carding gently through his hair, smoothing back sweat soaked strands. Dean didn’t have much strength left, he could feel his body starting to slow, his heart beginning to carefully cease its work. 

“Cas,” he finally managed to choke out. 

Everything he wanted to say was in that one word, and he knew Cas understood when he briefly let go of Dean’s hand to lay it on Sam’s arm, causing the younger Winchester to look up in panic. 

“It’s not use, Sam,” Cas said calmly. 

Sam shook his head, panic in his eyes. “No.” Cas leveled him with a look and Sam’s hands slowly fell away from the gushing wound. Dean tried to give Sam a reassuring look, but his brother was staring blankly at Dean.

Cas’s hand returned to Dean’s and Dean smiled through the blood and the pain. “I wish I could heal you,” Cas whispered softly.

Dean’s fingers tightened around Cas’s, trying to tell him that it was okay. It was okay that he didn’t have his powers anymore, life with him these past few years had been worth it all. Rescuing him from the empty, making him to become human to escape, it was all worth it. Dean knew Cas liked being human and that he vastly preferred it to being an angel. 

“Ca-” he tried to speak, but Cas shushed him by pressing the barest of kisses to his blood soaked lips. Cas must have seen the fear in his eyes, the terror at the thought of really dying, of not coming back, of leaving Cas, and Sam.

“It’s okay,” Cas said against his mouth. “It’s okay, Dean.” 

Dean could feel tears mingling with the blood on his face and he coughed again. Cas soothed him through it, a comforting hand through his hair and a kiss to his forehead. 

“I lo-” Dean tried to speak again, he had to get it out. 

“I know, I know,” Cas soothed, the tiniest of smiles crinkled his eyes and Dean couldn’t help thinking that the sight was a beautiful thing to die to. 

“I love you,” Dean managed to say, it was a raw whisper, shredded by the liquid in his lungs. 

“I love you too,” Cas replied, his voice shook with tears and Dean felt one fall onto his cheek. Cas raised Dean’s hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “So much,” he breathed against his skin.

Dean nodded weakly, his tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He looked over to Sam who was staring at Dean through his own tears. Dean looked back at Cas, a silent conversation passing between them. 

_Look after him_. He was telling Cas. 

Cas smiled, nodding. 

His body was starting to feel heavy, the call of death pulling him away. 

“It’s okay,” Cas said again and Dean took solace in the words. “You’re okay, Dean. I’ve got you, I’m here.” 

Dean wanted to sob, he wanted to cry in Cas’s arms until he was shaking and breathless, but he barely had enough energy left to blink. The blood loss had set in and he could see darkness creeping around the corners of his vision.

The last thing he heard before he let death claim him, was a soft whisper in his ear, Cas’s deep rumbling voice, so soothing and strong. “I’ll see you in Heaven.” 

Dean felt his last smile tug at his lips, his last breath pushing out of his clogged lungs past that smile as he finally let go and allowed himself to fall into the arms of death.


	3. To find you in death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUICIDE TRIGGER WARNING!!

_ Cas, _

_ You’re gonna hate me for this, I already hate myself for it, but I can’t do this anymore.  _

_ I can’t keep waking up everyday pretending to be okay when I’m not.  _

_ I can’t keep smiling at Sam over breakfast when I’m only gonna spend the rest of the day in my room, drinking myself to sleep so I can forget about everything I’ve lost.  _

_ And I don’t  _ want  _ to forget, not all of it. I don’t want to forget you, Cas. I  _ can’t _. You were everything to me, you  _ are  _ everything to me. But everyday, it gets harder and harder to remember you.  _

_ Cas, sometimes I wake up and I forget the sound of your voice. I’ll stare at your picture and I try to remember what you sounded like, I know you had a deep voice, I know it was gravelly and grounding, but for some reason I  _ can’t  _ remember it. I do remember eventually, of course, once the alcohol has cleared away and I can see straight; but one of these days I know I won’t, and it scares me so much, Cas.  _

_ Everyday, I lose parts of you.  _

_ I lose the sound of you.  _

_ The smell of you. _

_ The warm touch of your hand on my shoulder.  _

_ The soul-searching heat of your eyes boring into mine.  _

_ I can’t keep losing you.  _

_ I can’t keep living without you. Not when guilt keeps eating at me with each passing day.  _

_ I keep seeing you in front of me, confessing your love, your happiness so bright it was blinding, and I keep wondering why I didn’t say anything, why I couldn’t bring myself to tell you that I felt the same way.  _

_ I want you to know, that your sacrifice meant everything to me, and I’ve held out for as long as I can. I’ve tried to live my life,  _ for you _ , but I can’t live with a broken heart, Cas, I can’t.  _

_ I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, like you saved me.  _

_I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that I love you too, because I do,_ of course I do _. I love you so much, Cas. You could have had it, you could have me. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder._

_ And I’m sorry for what I’m about to do. I hope you can forgive me, for all of it, but I understand if you can’t.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Dean  _

Sam’s blood ran cold when he heard the gunshot. It echoed through the bunker in an eerie scream, and even as his legs carried him towards Dean’s room, fear pulsing through him at what he’d find, he knew it was over. 

Sam couldn’t look at him, the blood pooling from his head onto the white pillow below him, the peaceful look in his empty eyes. Sam felt tears on his cheeks but he was unsure of when he started crying them. 

He moved towards Dean, stepping over discarded beer and whiskey bottles, trying to see through the tears as he crashed to the ground beside his dead brother. He caught sight of the letter when he tried to use the nightstand to support his efforts in getting up. 

The envelope had one word scrawled across it:  _ Cas _

That’s when Sam understood. 

Dean hadn’t chosen death, he’d chosen Cas.


	4. A chasm of longing

He moved like a ghost, floating in and out of rooms, face ashen, eyes sunken in their sockets. A beer bottle would always hang from his hand, half full and slowly emptying. 

The bunker was quiet, when did it get so quiet? Or was it always this silent- this  _ empty-  _ and he just didn’t notice.

Dean didn’t know the answer, and he didn’t really care, nothing was going to fill the hole in his chest where Cas had once been. 

Not beer. 

Not hunting. 

Not TV.

Not music.

Not even taking a drive in Baby worked to lighten his mood. 

Everything seemed hopeless now. He was looking at a world through Cas-less goggles. The sky seemed grayer, the grass seemed duller, and the air seemed thicker.

And that ache in Dean’s chest, that caused every new breath he forced into his lungs to struggle to do its job, that ache was going to follow him around for the rest of his life; however much of it there was left.


	5. I'll watch over you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have some Cas angst.

Castiel would never tire of watching Dean sleep. The rise and fall of the green-eyed man’s chest was something soothing to witness; the soft breaths that escaped his mouth and whispered through the air reassured Castiel that Dean was alive. 

He wasn’t sure when he started taking it upon himself to ‘watch over’ Dean. He knew Dean didn’t like it, knew that it was unsettling in Dean’s mind, to have someone watch something that seems so private. But Castiel does it anyway because it’s the only time where Dean is completely and utterly, himself. He’s not hiding behind walls or brushing off his trauma with a smirk and a wink, he’s just... Dean. 

There’s a beauty in sleep which Castiel cannot help but be fascinated by.

Dean, especially, looks so wonderful when he sleeps. His eyelashes twitch as his eyes shift under closed lids, his mouth is parted slightly as he breaths, and his face, always lined with worry and anger in wakefulness, smooths out to something akin to peace, in his sleep. 

It’s a good look on the hunter. Castiel wishes that Dean could let himself be vulnerable like this when he’s awake as he does in his sleep. 

Castiel is an angel, he doesn’t need to sleep, doesn’t need to subject himself to hours of unconsciousness to feel rested. But watching Dean, something aches inside his chest, yearns to know what it feels like to close his eyes and dream.

Castiel has dreams of course, but they are merely aspirations. He does not dream in the sense that he can unconsciously create a new reality. Castiel could enter a daydream-like state if he wanted, he could close his eyes and let himself fall into a world of his own making. In fact, he does just that from time to time; even angels want to escape the real world occasionally. 

But Castiel’s dreams, his aspirations, they are of things he cannot possibly obtain, things he can only look at and wish for. Things like soft green eyes, skin dotted by freckles, a face roughened by stubble. 

Castiel dreams of Dean. 

He dreams of the life they could have if he ever managed to convey how he felt to the green-eyed hunter. But he can’t. Something always stops him whenever he opens his mouth, thinking that now would be the moment he’d tell Dean that he’s in love with him and has been for years. 

But there’s always something behind Dean’s eyes in those moments. Something hopeful yet deeply afraid, something that Castiel can’t quite put his finger on. He cannot jeopardize his friendship with Dean by daring to hope his sentiments are shared. 

So instead, Castiel sits quietly in the chair pointed at Dean’s bed. He busies himself with counting the freckles on Dean’s face and pushes down his want to be beside Dean, not across the room from him. He sits rigidly in his chair, stiff like the solider he is, and lets his blue gaze trail itself over Dean’s body.

And when Dean begins to twitch and writhe in his sheets, body convulsing in pain as a scream bursts from his mouth, Castiel slips from his chair with ease and presses his fingers to Dean’s forehead, calming his thrashing body. Dean goes limp under his touch, his mouth closing on the rest of his cries as his breathing evens out again. 

Castiel returns to his chair, takes up his mantle of guardian angel, and continues to watch over the man he loves. 

He half wishes someone could come ease his pain with a simple touch of fingertips to his forehead. He wishes his heart didn’t have to ache in his chest when he looked at Dean, a feeling that was so  _ human _ that the old Castiel would have been disgusted by it. He wishes his hands didn’t twitch to hold Dean’s or to run his fingers through the soft threads of the hunters hair. And yet he wishes for all of it anyway. 

He wishes for Dean.

But he resolves himself to suffer in silence.


	6. I'm praying, okay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean prays to Cas.

_Cas? You got your ears on?_

_...I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry i didn’t say it back._

_I’m sorry I let you go a second time._

_I’m sorry that you poured out your heart to me and I threw the glass on the ground._

_I’m sorry that you didn’t think we could be something; that’s my fault, really._

_I’m sorry that you gave up everything for me; I wasn’t worth that._

_I’m sorry that the last thing you said to me was goodbye, when it should have been hello._

_I’m sorry for being so scared to tell you how I felt._

_Cas, I’m so sorry._

_Please forgive me._

_I need you, man._

_I need you here, with me._

_I need you there when I fall asleep, and I need you there when I wake up._

_You’ve been gone for five minutes and I miss you like you’ve been gone for a thousand years._

_I will find a way to get you out of there._

_I promise._

_You never gave up on me, and I won’t give up on you._

_You were wrong, Cas._

_Happiness_ is _in the having._

_I’m not like you. I can’t just accept things the way they are._

_I have to have you._

_I can’t live without you._

_So I’ll find you._

_I’ll save you._

_I’ll raise you from perdition, just like you raised me._

_And we can have it, Cas. We can have it all._

_... I love you too._


	7. Heaven can be a haven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel goes to Dean in Heaven.

Castiel felt it the second Dean’s last breath left his body. He felt Dean’s soul soaring skyward, he felt all the pain Dean had been in in his last moments, and he felt his own heart crack at the realization that Dean Winchester was dead, for good this time. 

“You should go to him,” Jack said softly, causing Castiel’s eyes to snap open from where they’d been squeezed shut in agony. 

He knew he could see Dean again now that he was dead, he also knew that Dean probably didn’t want to see him, and he knew that he was still going to have to face him one way or another. 

Castiel shook his head. “Not yet, there are plenty of things that need doing here.” 

Jack’s hand landed gently on Castiel’s shoulder. “The longer you wait, the longer you’ll doubt you should see him at all.” 

Castiel blinked at his son in surprise. “Those are wise words.” 

Jack shrugged. “I’m just saying, you miss him, and he misses you.” 

Castiel sighed and nodded slowly. “Alright, I’ll go to him.” 

“Good.” 

Castiel gathered his new wings around him and let them carry him towards Dean. 

He appeared in the middle of a long stretch of road and he could make out the unmistakable shape of a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala making its way towards him. 

Castiel waited patiently for the car to reach him and when it slowed, the rumble of the engine loud in the quiet of Heaven, Castiel’s heart leaped into his throat as Dean stepped from his beloved car. 

“Cas?” Dean asked in disbelief. 

“Hello, Dean.” 

Castiel didn’t know what he expected to happen, but Dean running at him and flinging his arms around his neck was not it. 

“Bobby said... but I didn’t... but you’re here... you’re alive,” Dean muttered into Castiel’s shoulder. 

Castiel brought his arms up to Dean’s back and let himself melt into the hug. “Yes, I’m alive. Jack got me out.” 

Dean pulled away just enough for their eyes to meet. “How long ago?” 

“A week or so. Since he became God.” 

Hurt flashed across Dean’s face. “Why didn’t you come back to Earth?” 

Castiel’s eyes flicked to the ground, unable to meet Dean’s steady green gaze any longer. “I didn’t think you’d want me,” he said quietly. 

“You didn’t think- Cas, _of course_ I wanted you back,” Dean said earnestly, his voice cracking on the last word. 

Castiel dragged his eyes back up to Dean’s. “You did?” 

Dean’s fingers fisted tightly in the fabric of Castiel’s trench coat and suddenly he was being pulled forward into a kiss. Dean’s lips were soft, his mouth felt perfect against Castiel’s, they drew breaths in sync, neither wanting the kiss to end. 

It is justified to say that the feeling pumping through Castiel is heavenly. He is in Heaven -literally and blissfully- in Dean’s arms, in the middle of a road that stretches forever.

“I love you too,” Dean said breathlessly against Castiel’s lips. “I have for years.” 

Castiel stared at Dean, his heart bursting with joy, with happiness, the happiness he’d felt in the moment he’d sacrificed himself for Dean could not hold a candle to the happiness of _this_ moment. 

“Sorry it took me dying for me to say it,” Dean added, embarrassed. 

“Yes about that, I wasn’t expecting you so soon.” 

Dean let out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, me either. But that doesn’t matter,” Dean glanced over to his car and his hand fell into Castiel’s, “what do you say we go for a drive? We have a lot to talk about.” 

Castiel smiled and let his fingers tangle with Dean’s. “That sounds wonderful.” 


	8. Men Don't Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets to go on his first hunt with his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings for blood and stiches in this chapter.

Dean was not going to cry. 

He was _not_ going to cry. 

He was a man, just like his Dad, and he was not going to cry. 

Men don’t cry.

But it hurt. 

He was twelve years old, and his Dad had just taken him on his first hunt, a werewolf hunt that he’d wanted backup for. Dean wasn’t supposed to engage in any of the actual fighting, he was supposed to leave that to Dad. He was only there in case any of the wolves escaped, and if that happened then he was supposed to shoot to kill. 

But the longer Dean sat in the woods, eyes fixed on the cabin that his Dad had disappeared inside, the more anxious he got. 

He could hear fighting and gunshots and yelps of pain, but his father’s orders kept him rooted to the spot. 

_You’re not to enter that cabin under any circumstances, do you understand?_

_Yes, sir._

So, Dean stayed outside. Ears ringing with the echoes of bullets singing through the air. He wanted to make his Dad proud, to show him that he was ready to be a hunter and to back him up on hunts, but worry still nagged at him at the sounds coming from the cabin. 

He heard a shout that could only have come from his father’s mouth, and seconds later a man baring his teeth in a snarl burst through the door. 

“Dean!” his father shouted.

Dean could only stare at the werewolf in shock as it barreled towards him. But he finally managed to raise his gun and aim. The wolf was so close that his long claws raked across Dean’s stomach just as he fired, sending a silver bullet through the beasts heart.

The werewolf fell to the ground, dead, and Dean was left to meet his father’s gaze. 

John Winchester only blinked a few times at Dean before grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into the Impala. He tossed Dean a rag and instructed him to put pressure on the wound before sending them off back to the motel. 

That’s where Dean sat now, in their motel room, in a chair beside the barely-standing table that held all the first aid supplies his Dad always kept with him. 

Dean had bitten the inside of his cheeks so hard that he could taste blood as he tried to will away the tears prickling at his eyes. 

He would not cry. 

The needle moving in and out of his shredded skin, as his father worked to close the wound, felt like he was being stabbed by tiny knives. His Dad didn’t speak a word as he focused on his task, and so Dean didn’t try to talk either. 

Finally, the wound was declared sutured and his father wiped around it with a rag that smelled heavily of alcohol and plastered a bandage to it. 

“There, you’re done,” John said as he stood up. 

Dean nodded slowly and was ordered to bed. 

Safely under the covers, head turned away from his father, he let the tears fall. The pain threatened to swallow him up, but his father had offered him had nothing to ease it. He was careful not to make any noise, so careful not to let his father know that his son was crying. 

But his father’s anger filled voice rang in his ears nonetheless. 

_Men don’t cry._

After the age of six, crying was unacceptable under any circumstances. 

When Dean was caught crying over a scraped knee, his father had sat him down and leveled him with the most intense rage-filled glare. 

“You stop that right now, Dean,” he’d snapped. 

Dean sniffled and wiped at his eyes but he couldn’t stop the tears. 

“I c-can’t,” he’d hiccupped. 

His father took him by the shoulders and gave him a shake, not too hard, but not soft either. 

“No son of mine, is going to be seen crying like a girl over a scraped knee. You’re a man now, Dean. Men don’t cry. Do you hear me? _Men don’t cry._ ” 

Dean nodded, eyes still red, nose running, and tears finishing their tracks on his cheeks. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled as one last tear fell from his eyes. 

His father nodded curtly and then stood up, leaving Dean to follow him. 

Lying under the covers, tears dampening his pillow, he couldn’t get himself to stop. The sharp voice of his father barely kept the sobs that wanted to escape his chest at bay, but it couldn’t stop the tears. 

It hurt so much and there was only one person he wanted, only one person who could ease his pain. 

He wanted his Mom. 

But she was dead, gone, burned on the ceiling by a monster his father had yet to catch. 

Soon his tears of pain became tears of longing. He missed his Mom, he hardly remembered what her voice sounded like, but he knew it was soft, and loving, nothing like the rough gravel that was John’s, whose every word left scrapes under his skin that no one could see; but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

His father hadn’t even praised him for a job well done. He’d hardly spoken a word to Dean since they got back. He knew his father well enough to know that something Dean had done had made him angry, and that something lay stitched under a bandage. 

He’d had gotten hurt on the hunt because he wasn’t quick enough, and so John was disappointed. 

Dean had wanted so badly to impress his father, to show him he was ready, but he’d failed, because that was all he knew how to do. 

He never did anything right. 

Slowly, he wiped the tears from his face and then pulled the blankets up to his chin before shutting his eyes. Somehow, he managed to block out the pain enough to let himself fall into a restless sleep. 

Maybe one day he’d stop being a failure and John Winchester would be able to look at him without the glint of disgust that always shimmered in his eyes.


	9. Turn me away, I'll come back broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for: suicidal thoughts, abuse, blood.

The sky was dark. The clouds sat heavy in the stark expanse of galaxy. No stars could be seen, and somehow that made Dean feel better; there were less eyes to pray upon his weakness. 

Tears stung his cheeks but they didn’t stay long before the cold wind blew them away, what tears did remain, quickly froze in their travels. One of his eyes was barely even open, he could only see out of a small slit against the swelling. His lip was split and bleeding, he could taste blood in the back of his throat and could feel it dripping down his face from his nose. 

Dean stood with his back against a tree, the rough bark digging into his back with each labored breath that wheezed past his lips. He let the wind whip him, not caring that it lashed into his body with the steely grip of a predators teeth. 

He wasn’t supposed to see. 

Dean hadn’t meant for him to see. 

But of course John had seen. Of course Dean had been followed. Of course his father would disapprove.

He thought he’d snuck out undetected, but his father was a light sleeper, and any sound alerted him; Dean shouldn’t have assumed he could outsmart him. 

He’d gone out to meet Brendon, a... friend... he’d made on their last hunt. Brendon understood the life, so Dean thought maybe John would approve if he wanted to be something more with him. He thought maybe his father would have changed since their last discussion on sexuality. He couldn’t have been more wrong. 

Dean hadn’t wasted a minute when he saw Brendon, he’d kissed him under the starless sky, their bodies flush against each other, trying to hide from the harsh cold in the air. 

That was when the shout had rung out, shattering the ice that had been preserving the moment. 

“Run!” Dean hissed to Brendon. 

The boy took off, fear in his eyes. 

Dean had barely turned towards his father when the first hit came and the rest never stopped coming. 

John seemed to think that the solution to whatever was ‘wrong’ with Dean, was to beat it out of him, and Dean was powerless to stop him. 

Dean tried to crawl away, pain singing from every place on his body, but John dragged him back and subjected Dean to more hits from his fists and kicks from his steel-toed boots. Dean felt one of his ribs shatter, and all he could do was curl into a ball and hope it would stop soon. 

When John left him, broken and bleeding, with a spat warning that if he ever ‘pulled a stunt like that again’ he’d would never be allowed to come back.

Dean hadn’t been able to move for a long time. The moon was hidden behind endless clouds, the rush of cars from a distant road filled his ringing ears, and a dog barked in the distance. 

When he’d finally managed to get his feet under him, he clutched at his side and ran. 

His feet took him into the woods behind the motel and he ran through the pain that clouded around him. Voices clamored in his ears, whispering to him to run away, or to just end it all. Why should he go back when he’d have to hide who he was inside from his father? 

The reason to return was clear to him the second the intrusive thoughts crossed the threshold of his mind. 

Sam. 

There was no world where he would leave his brother alone with John. Sam was only nine years old. Dean had to protect him, he had to let Sam be a kid, had to send him off to live his life; free of this torment. 

No, Dean had to go back. 

Resolve hardening his core, Dean trekked back through the woods to their motel room. 

When he pushed the door open, John was no where in sight, but Sam was sitting up in bed, a book on his lap. 

“Where’s Dad?” Dean asked, cautious, he was conscience of the harsh rasp of his voice.

“He said he was going out,” Sam replied. There was a pause and then Sam put his book aside and crossed the room to Dean. “Did he do this to you?” 

Dean bit back the truth and shook his head. 

“Dean,” Sam said, voice almost a whisper. “Dad had blood on his hands when he came in here. You don’t have to lie.” 

“He didn’t mean it,” Dean mumbled. 

_Why was he always defending his father? Why couldn’t he out him for the monster he was?_

“Dad wasn’t drunk tonight,” Sam whispered in confusion. 

“Sammy,” Dean rasped. “It doesn’t matter.” 

“Yes it does,” Sam replied, voice suddenly hard. 

Dean waved him off and pushed past him, heading for the bathroom. 

“Dean,” Sam called after him, “wait!” 

“Leave me alone,” Dean snapped as he slammed the bathroom door. 

Alone with just his reflection, Dean gripped the edges of the sink as more tears pearled from his eyes, rolling down his cheeks, their salt stinging his wounds.

The boy who looked back at him in the mirror, was not someone he recognized. 

This boy’s face was marred with defeat, his eyes were no longer bright green, but a dull sage color, gray and desolate, an echo of the dark sky outside. 

The blood that lay caked across his face was from the wounds of a soldier fighting in a war that he could not possibly win, and yet he fought anyway, knowing he would lose. 

Dean turned the water on as his tears dripped into the sink, and he slowly began to scrub himself clean from the damage his father had inflicted on him. He wrapped his broken rib with medical tape and an ace bandage and deemed himself cleaned up enough. But, clean to the outside eye as he might appear, his insides still squirmed from wounds that would never heal, they would bleed and pulse forever, unable to be sutured. 

Dean squared his shoulders, ignoring the pain in his ribs as he did so, and took a few calming breaths. Rage still simmered, barely contained, under the surface of his deadened eyes, but he knew he’d have to swallow it down if he wanted to survive long enough to protect Sam. 

When he opened the bathroom door, Sam fell backwards onto the tiled floors. Soft snores slipped past his brother’s lips and Dean bit back amusement. Sam had fallen asleep waiting for him to come out, had he really been in there that long? 

With a sigh, Dean bent down, biting the inside of his cheeks to stop from grunting in pain, and lifted Sam into his arms. The kid was light and Dean had no trouble dumping him onto his bed and tucking him under the covers. He brushed Sam’s shaggy hair away from his face and smiled down at him. 

“Goodnight, Sammy,” he whispered. 

With Sam settled, Dean climbed into the empty bed, knowing John wouldn’t be back tonight, he’d be in a bar getting drunk so he could try to forget that his son was a faggot. 

Dean closed his eyes, which were finally dry of tears, and rode the wave of pain into sleep. 


	10. Under Your Scars

The first time Cas’s fingers brushed over his skin, tracing a white scar, that Dean was pretty sure had been caused by a vampire during his time in purgatory, he flinched, and Cas instantly pulled away. 

“My apologies,” he said.

Dean felt shame rush through him and he blinked open his eyes and rolled over so he could see Cas. “No, it’s okay. You can-” Dean swallowed hard, heart beating loud as thunder in his chest, “-you can touch them.” 

Doubt guarded Cas’s gaze and so Dean took one of the angels hands in his own and pressed it to the scar on his chest. Cas stared in wonder for a moment before he started to gently skim his fingers over the scar tissue. 

“I remember putting you back together,” Cas said softly. “I searched Hell for every piece of you, dragged bits of your soul from the clutches of demons, sewed you back into a person, every scar erased.” 

“Not every one,” Dean mumbled, his mind instantly thinking of the handprint on his shoulder. 

Cas laughed, it was a gentle sound, deep yet soothing. “I suppose not.”

Dean hated his scars. Each one had a story, and even the ones that Cas had gotten rid of, still lived in his mind. 

The second time Cas touched Dean’s scars, Dean was laying on his stomach, bare back exposed to the air, and Cas had placed a warm hand between his shoulder blades. Soft, but calloused, fingers danced over a long scar that Dean had gotten in a werewolf fight. 

“Did this one hurt a lot?” Cas asked. 

Dean nodded into his pillow, eyes shut against the memory of the wolves claws digging into his back, pain exploding in his veins.

There was a moment of silence and then Dean felt Cas’s lips gently press a kiss to the scar. 

“I think it’s beautiful.”

Dean scoffed and twisted so he could look at Cas where he sat on the bed. “It’s ugly.” 

Cas shook his head. “You’re wrong.” 

Dean sighed and pushed himself up into a sitting position. “How can you think that things caused by pain and suffering are beautiful? All my scars do are remind of times I’ve failed.” 

Cas took Dean’s hand in his and kissed his knuckles, knuckles that were dotted with scars from fights and bursts of anger. “Where you see weakness, I see strength.” 

Dean looked down at their joined hands and tried to ignore the tears beginning to prick at his eyes. “Why do you love me?” 

Dean felt Cas falter at the question, but the angel soon recovered from the surprise of the question, reaching forward to touch Dean’s face, drawing his eyes up to meet blue. 

“I love you because you’re you.” 

“What kind of answer is that?” 

“Do you want me to list every single reason?”

Dean didn’t answer, only frowned, and wrenched his gaze from Cas’s. 

Cas shifted on the bed, drawing them closer, and pressed a kiss to Dean’s lips. 

“I love you,” Cas began, “because you love unconditionally, because you’re loyal, and strong, and resilient, I love you because you _care_.” 

Dean felt a tear fall from his eyes at that word. Cas’s speech to him, right before the empty took him, came flooding back. He thought he’d lost Cas forever that day. 

“I love you because you never give up, you never give in. You help people out of the goodness of your heart, and your heart _is_ good, Dean. Your heart is so good, and pure, and I know you’ll never be able to see yourself the way I do, but you are perfect.” 

“I’m not perfect,” Dean muttered. “If I were perfect, I wouldn’t be so broken.” 

Cas sighed and entangled Dean’s fingers with his. “Sometimes things need to be broken so they can shine.” Dean blinked at Cas in confusion and the angel only shrugged. “Take a glowstick for example, it only lights up after it’s been cracked.” 

“You did not seriously compare me to a glowstick,” Dean grumbled over a small laugh. 

“Of course not. A glowstick could not possibly represent you. Your soul is much brighter than a glowstick,” Cas replied, deadpan. 

Dean snorted and knocked Cas’s shoulder with his own. “Shut up.” 

“I’m being truthful. You’re perfect to me, Dean. Broken or not. I can see under your scars, Dean. You’ve been through so much, and you’ve grown so strong from your experiences. Please never be ashamed of your scars or the cracks in your armor, they make you who you are, and I wouldn’t want you any other way.” 

The tears fell in earnest now, and Cas gathered Dean in his arms, shushing him and soothing him with soft words and kisses. 

And so, the third time Cas touched Dean’s scars, he didn’t flinch, he didn’t draw away. He let the angel paint patterns into his skin with his touch. He let Cas comment on the beauty of the body that had been broken and glued back together too many times to count. 

When Cas settled down beside him for the night, Dean turned to look at him, this beautiful angel, who was more perfect in Dean’s eyes than anything else. He kissed him slowly, pouring his love into the movement of their lips together, connected at the seams. And when they pulled apart, wrapped in each other’s arms, Dean decided that there was no better feeling than love. For love was the only emotion that had any power over the others. 

Love could conquer anger and hate.

Love could push sadness away to make room for joy.

But most of all…

Love could wash you clean of all your imperfections. So with each kiss Cas pressed to a scar he found embedded in Dean’s skin, he started to believe that maybe Cas was right… maybe, all those years ago, he had deserved to be saved after all.


	11. I dreamed a dream

Castiel was so new to everything concerning the incredible feat that was being human. Aches and pains dwelled in his joints, tiredness seeped through him with an ease that he hadn’t known could exist; it gripped him in an iron hold, dragging him down in an ocean that he had otherwise been afloat in. 

He had been prepared for these things. He’d watched the Winchesters endure pain and suffering, he’d seen firsthand what it would be like if he lost the safety that his grace provided, making him just that little bit more invincible than a mere human. He knew what it felt like to hurt, as he was still vulnerable to the edge of a blade or the barrel of a gun, but such things could never kill him. 

The one thing that Castiel had never been able to comprehend, the one thing that troubled him more than anything else, was the one thing he had not been prepared for.

Nightmares.

Dean Winchester is a frequent customer to the agony of nightmares and Castiel has soothed his terrors more times than he can count, whether Dean welcomed his efforts or not. 

But Castiel himself, once angel of the Lord, had never understood the complexity of a human mind while it dreamed. He was never able to figure out how one could be tormented in what was supposed to be a restful experience. He only came to understand, one night, when his mind started to play tricks on him during his slumber. 

Getting to sleep was hard. The bunker hummed around him, the concrete walls seemed to close in on him, a cold wind brushed over his skin and sent shivers down his spine, a feeling Dean had told him felt like you were being watched. The bed under him was comfortable but stiff, the pillow was thin and did little to support his head. His thoughts seemed to be caught up in a race, chasing each other around and around on an invisible track. 

Once he did manage to drift off, a tired body rolling him into sleep, his dreams were the farthest from pleasant. 

He dreamt of everything that had been done to him. He dreamt of the pain from being torn apart by the snap of a finger. He dreamt of the millions and millions of clones, that bore an uncanny resemblance to Dean Winchester, strewn dead around an empty warehouse. He dreamt of his memories being tampered with at the hands of Naomi. 

Castiel woke up with a scream of pain, straining against the straps of a chair, that was no longer there, as his thoughts and memories were altered, his programming rewritten, all to make him the perfect soldier. 

Sweat slicked his skin and dampened his shirt, his heart hammered a desperate drumbeat in his chest, and his hands were clammy where they gripped the sheets around him. 

The whirring of Naomi’s drill echoed in his mind and he swallowed hard, the fear pulsing through him yet another new feeling he would have to get used to. 

Footsteps sounded outside his room and then the door was being pushed open and Dean was shouldering his way inside, gun drawn. 

“Cas!?” he shouted, voice pulled tight with worry. 

“I’m alright, Dean,” Castiel replied where he sat upright on the bed, his breath still trying to find its way back to his lungs. 

Dean’s sharp green eyes suddenly snapped towards him and he instantly lowered his weapon. “You were screaming, I thought-” 

“It was just a nightmare.”

Understanding flickered across Dean’s features, dancing in the hallway light where it shone into Castiel’s room, a sliver of brightness to conquer the dark. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Dean asked tentatively. 

Castiel considered this offer. Dean knew most of what Castiel had dreamed about, but he was in no hurry to relive his memories with the hunter.

So he shook his head. “No.” 

“Okay, uh,” Dean started to back away, “I’ll just go.” 

The thought of being alone was not a good one and the act of it was not something Castiel wanted to endure. “Can you please stay?” he asked. 

Dean faltered in the doorway. Castiel was sure he was about to say no, but then he nodded and stepped fully into the room, shutting the door behind him with a click. “Sure, Cas.” 

In the dark, Dean’s movements were those of a shadow, sliding seamlessly through the room as if he were a part of it. When he pulled back the covers and joined Castiel in the bed, the springs creaking under his weight, Dean suddenly became more visible. 

Castiel could see the few strands of hair that tried to flee the nest of neatly stacked strands on top of his head, he could see the sparkle in his eyes and the upturn of his lips as he offered Castiel the barest of smiles. 

They lay there for a moment, bodies close but not touching, the air charged with electricity, like the moment before lightning strikes. 

Castiel shivered in sudden cold from the drying sweat on his skin, and Dean instantly moved closer, pulling the former angel into his arms. He knew neither of them would speak of this in the morning, Dean was only comforting him from a nightmare, nothing more. 

But the longer he lay in Dean’s arms, listening to the steady beat of his heart and his quiet breaths, the more he began to understand just what it meant to be human, to _feel_. This feeling blossoming in his chest was only going to grow. He’d always felt something towards Dean, even when he was an angel, but now that he had shed his wings, now that he could bleed and hurt and feel, he learned what love _truly_ felt like. 

Castiel held tightly to Dean, burrowing into the crook of his arm, laying his head under Dean’s chin, the last remnants of his nightmare slipping away as Dean traced careful patterns across his back with his fingers. The motion soothed him, drew his eyelids closed and pushed a happy hum from his lips. 

After a moment, Castiel felt the lightest of pressures on the top of his head. It took him a second to realize that it had been a kiss, the most barely-there of kisses, but a kiss nonetheless.

“‘Night angel,” Dean said softly against his hair. 

_Angel? But he wasn’t..._

“Dean, I’m no longer an angel,” Castiel corrected Dean’s mistake. 

Dean chuckled under him, his laugh reverberating through Castiel’s bones. “It’s an expression, Cas. Wings or not, you’ll always be an angel to me.” 

“Oh,” Castiel said in a whisper.

Warmth spread through him, such a stark contrast to the cold he’d been feeling minutes before. The only thing he could equate the feeling to was that of his grace flowing through his vessel, filling him up with power and light. He was without his grace now, and he missed it dearly, but perhaps he would eventually learn to live without it, perhaps Dean could fill the hole his grace had left behind. 

Dean shifted, bringing his arms up to wrap even more securely around Castiel’s human frame, jarring him from his thoughts.

Castiel had never had to worry about feeling safe when he was an angel, he was the one who did the safekeeping, the protecting; but now that he was a fragile human being, he was sure that he would never feel safer in any place but Dean’s arms.

When he finally fell asleep, it was the most restful, most peaceful, sleep he had experienced since becoming human, and he wished that he could spend every night tucked against Dean’s body, but alas, that was probably too far fetched a dream. 


	12. Hunter's Hospital

Dean found himself drifting off to the sweet litany of beeping monitors. The sound was like a lullaby in his head, the slow _beep beep beep beep_ nothing more than a whisper, telling him to sleep. It rocked him on gentle waves and coaxed him closer to unconsciousness, although, a Dean that wasn’t pumped full of pain medication would understand that the beeping had nothing to do with his drooping eyelids and everything to do with said pain medication. 

Sleep was welcome to his aching body. He knew it was bad, it had to be if he was in the hospital and not some rundown motel, but his mind was foggy enough not to worry about just _how_ bad. 

He came and went from consciousness, only waking when a nurse came to check on him or the drugs wore off and the pain started to creep in. His head hurt like a motherfucker and there was a throbbing ache in his leg and ribs that caused his breath to stutter every time he inhaled. 

“How are we doing?” a nurse asked, she was blond, petite, and was exactly Dean’s type, but unfortunately, being bedridden and out of it meant that he couldn’t exactly turn the charm on easily. Not to mention, he was already taken, he had no reason to flirt.

“‘M’kay,” Dean slurred in response. 

The nurse checked his eyes, changed his bandages, and the whole time Dean let his attention fall in and out of focus. The nurse was wearing some kind of flowery perfume that made Dean want to sneeze, but somehow he managed to keep his bodily fluids to himself. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll have you out of here in no time,” the nurse said as she gave him a pat on the cheek, checked over the monitors one more time, and then left the room. 

“Who’s worried,” Dean mumbled to her retreating back as he let himself flop back against the pillows, smiling as the morphine she’d given him reached his system. 

The next time someone came into his room, he was pleased to see that it was Sam, with Cas in tow. 

“Hey Dean,” Sam said as he sat down in the chair by his bed. 

“Heya, Sammy,” Dean replied with a smile.

“How’re you feeling?” Sam asked. 

Dean shifted his gaze to Cas and couldn’t help but let his smile grow. “Peachy.” 

“Do you remember what happened?” Cas asked as he sat down in the chair on the other side of Dean’s bed. 

“‘S a little fuzzy,” Dean admitted, still only having eyes for Cas. 

“That ghoul threw you good,” Sam said. 

“Straight through the window,” Cas chimed in. “You hit your head pretty bad on the concrete.” 

“But not before the ghoul kicked out your leg,” Sam added. 

Dean groaned. “No wonder I feel like I was just run over by a stampede.” 

“We’re working on your discharge papers,” Sam said as he clapped a hand down on Dean’s shoulder, Dean winced at the impact. “Sorry.” 

Dean waved him off with a grunt. “When do you think I’ll be out of here?” 

“They’ll probably want to keep you overnight to monitor you,” Cas replied. 

“Awesome,” Dean mumbled. 

“I’ll go see if I can negotiate a change to that plan,” Sam said as he stood up. 

Once Sam was gone, Dean grinned lazily at Cas. “Hi.” 

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replied warmly. 

Dean reached up a hand and gently ran his fingers over Cas’s face. Stubble scratched at the pads of his fingers but Dean liked the pull of it. He took in the bags under Cas’s eyes and the scab forming on his left cheek, but in searching Cas’s blue gaze he found concern there.

“You look worried.”

Cas huffed a broken laugh. “Of course I’m worried, you’re hurt.” 

“‘S nothin’, ‘ve had worse.” 

“You haven’t had a concussion to this severity before, I know that much,” Cas said as he reached out and took Dean’s hand in his own. 

Dean liked the feeling of Cas’s warm palm fitted into his, and he said as much, leaving Cas to laugh in amusement. Dean felt a dopy grin spread across his face and he let himself get lost in those blue eyes again. 

“I love you,” he blurted out, unable to stop himself. 

Cas squeezed his hand. “I love you too.” 

Dean drew his lips into a pout. “What, no kiss?” 

Cas rolled his eyes. “I’m not kissing you while you’re this drugged up.” 

Dean’s pout grew. “Why not?” 

“Because it would be inappropriate,” Cas replied. Dean crossed his arms like a petulant child, of course that proved difficult due to his broken ribs, but he tried anyway. “Don’t hurt yourself,” Cas warned. 

“It’s not like I’m not aware of my actions,” Dean argued. 

Cas sighed. “Dean, we’re in a hospital, I’d much rather kiss you once we’re back in our bed, preferably after you’ve brushed your teeth and taken a shower.”

Dean uncrossed his arms and nodded slowly. “Okay, that’s fair.” 

Cas did kiss the back of Dean’s hand to make up for it and Dean let his fingers thread with Cas’s. 

“I wish I could heal you,” Cas said softly. “I hate that I can’t.” 

Dean squeezed Cas’s hand and put on his best reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Besides, if you healed me I wouldn’t get you doting on me like this.” 

Cas frowned but there was a small twinkle in his eyes. “Still, I hate seeing you in pain.” 

“‘M not in pain.” 

“You might change that sentiment once the drugs wear off.” 

Dean didn’t have enough energy to respond so he let his eyes close and when Sam returned to the room, he found them like that, Dean dozing off and Cas sitting resolutely by his side. 

“Dean’ll be good to go in a few hours,” Sam announced as he plopped into his previously vacated chair, tearing Dean from his almost-slumber.

“Super,” Dean yawned as he cracked open an eye to look at his brother. 

Dean spent the rest of his hospital stay eating pudding and watching crap TV and when he was finally wheeled out of the building and helped into the backseat of Baby, he let out a sigh of relief. 

“I hate hospitals,” Dean grumbled as he leaned into Cas’s shoulder. 

“I know,” Cas replied as he ran a hand through Dean’s hair. 

The car ride was silent after that, and when they got back to the bunker Dean was practically carried down the stairs and into his room. Cas helped Dean clean up and then he collapsed onto their bed and Cas joined him. 

“You owe me a kiss,” Dean said as he looked over at his husband. 

Cas smiled and scooched closer to Dean, placing a hand on his cheek and drawing him in. Their lips met in a soft kiss, but Dean deepened it the first chance he got and Cas grinned into his mouth. 

When they pulled apart, Dean felt like he was floating. “That was worth the wait,” he said. 

“I’m glad,” Cas replied as their hands tangled together under the sheets. “Now try to get some rest.” 

“Okay, Mom,” Dean grumbled. 

“I certainly hope you don’t see me as an equivalent to your mother,” Cas said, slightly affronted, but teasing. 

Dean shoved gently at him, which caused his ribs to twinge painfully, but he ignored it. “No way in Hell.” 

“Good.” 

“Love you,” Dean said over a yawn as he squeezed Cas’s hand. 

“Love you, too.” 

Dean fell asleep with a smile on his face, despite the throbbing pain of his injured limbs. Cas was the only medicine he needed. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, come bother me on [Tumblr](https://trenchcoatimpala.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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